


Numb Fingers

by prompt_fills



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Comfort/Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heartache, Heavy Angst, Loss, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9280541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/pseuds/prompt_fills
Summary: Steve loses his best friend and when he is grieving at Bucky's grave, Tony appears and tries to offer comfort.An anon on the avengerskink wanted this hearache.





	

[…]
_Now bitter-worn with age was he,_ 
_And weary of mankind, for few_ 
_Had shown him love or courtesy._ 
(The Hostage by Walter de la Mare) 


 

Steve could barely keep the wide grin from his face. He pulled his cowl back as the Wakanda King lead him through the complex mausoleum of the corridors. He didn’t want the mask to be between them when Bucky opened his eyes.

The air was moist and made his hair cling to the nape of his neck. He run his hand through it, attempting to fluff it up a bit, already hearing Bucky’s teasing remark in his ears. Oh Lord, please let it really be _Bucky_ to emerge.

Their quiet steps were echoing as they entered the familiar room. Only minutes were keeping Steve from reuniting with Bucky. Sure, it would take time until they would get anywhere but this was the start of the process. Steve would stay for as long as it would take.

The Wakanda King cleared his throat. “Shall we, Captain?”

“Please,” Steve nodded, only barely managing not to sound like an excited five-year-old in front of a Christmas tree. “Proceed.”

There was a slight creak as the lid was retracted, then the hiss of freezing air from the cryo meeting the hot, humid one in the room.

Steve smiled, reaching in to help his friend get out. His heart was madly fluttering in his chest with joy. Bucky was icy cold to the touch but his eyes fluttered open and focused on Steve.

“Buck,” Steve breathed out, the smile so wide it made his jaw hurt.

There was a cold puff of air as Bucky’s lips parted, the air surrounding him still too cold. Steve hauled Bucky in for a hug, pulling him into the room at the same time.

They stumbled and Steve laughed, giddy with the happiness and hope. “Bucky?” He drew back a little, arms still around Bucky as he watched his friend’s face. It’s been too long since they stood side by side, longer still since they fought side by side.

Bucky’s answering grin was smaller but it was there, the familiar upward curve of his smile, the mirth in his eyes and the soft crinkled lines around them.

Steve took it all in, drinking in the sight of his friend, the only person who made friends with Steve Rogers, the little punk from Brooklyn, rather than Captain America. He knew he was staring but he didn’t care one bit. It had been months since they decided the cryo was the safest option. Those months when Steve knew Bucky was _there_ but still out of reach, those dragged on just as much as the past years did.

Steve was still staring which was why he saw it unfold in a slow-motion in front of his eyes.

The smile dimmed first. Then the little hitch in Bucky’s breath and the colour vanishing from his face. Bucky’s eyes shone bright, the pupils blown wide.

“Stevie,” he exhaled quietly, more like a sigh that escaped him than a sound that would carry.

 _No!_ Steve wanted to shout because he knew right then. He knew and he was frozen still, his throat so tight he couldn’t make a sound. The floor was turning into the ocean beneath his feet. He was plunged in, faster than he thought to take a breath, and the air was squeezed from his lungs. His ears were ringing, his skin prickling. Despair, pure and boundless despair, rose from the cold to cradle him in its arms.

Steve _knew_ and he couldn’t do anything at all. The grip of Bucky’s fingers loosened.

_No!_

Bucky’s lips parted but it wasn’t words that came out of his mouth. Detached, Steve saw the blood welling up, dripping from his mouth. Metal fingers rose to touch the blood, then Bucky glanced down at it and when he looked up again, there was a look in his eyes Steve knew he would never be able to forget.

_No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!_

Their eyes locked and the moment was both endless and over too soon. Bucky’s gaze turned unfocused, his eyes flickering up and over Steve’s head before they turned unseeing.

Steve’s hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t keep holding onto his friend. Bucky fell from his grip.

Someone was shouting in the distance and everyone who was giving them privacy for the moment of their reunion was now on them, trying to figure out what’s wrong and how to help.

In his chest, Steve’s heart was being torn into shreds, agonizingly slowly.

There was no helping them.

Bucky’s eyes were wide open, his chest unmoving, his hair in disarray around his face, his blood was pooling on the floor.

 _We are so sorry,_ someone was saying.

_He must have been wounded before we put him in._

_The cold only slowed down the progression._

_Are you all right, Captain?_

_He couldn’t heal._

All those endless moths that Steve spent looking forward to the future, Bucky was dying.

_He was already dead when we put him in._

Despair shushed all the voices, throwing a veil of darkness over Steve’s eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch the scene anymore.

Seventy three hours later, Steve was standing over Bucky’s grave. Only seventy three hours had passed but there was a chasm of _before_ and _after_. For the second time, he had lived through his worst nightmare.

He was still in Wakanda, still out of his natural timeline, and he was alone, again.

He hadn’t eaten anything, couldn’t force even a tiny bite or sip down his throat. His stomach was rumbling in protest and hysterically, Steve could hear Bucky’s laughter in his ears at that. _Paying me respects with that cacophony, punk?_

Steve sighed, placing one arm over his stomach in an attempt to make it settle. He closed his eyes. The tears wouldn’t come, not then and not now. The pain was there, though, and his heart continued to be shredded into pieces, although he thought the pieces that were left were too small to be able to divide any further. While he was being proved wrong, Steve knelt down next to the headstone.

They didn’t want to risk putting a name there. After all, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes already had a grave back in the States.

They would never tell anyone now. The public was never to know the truth about the Winter Soldier. That name wouldn’t be cleared. Everything Bucky had been through, for nothing.

In the silence of the night, despair spoke to him, reassuring him in quiet hisses that it would never leave, that it would always stay with him. Whatever might come next, despair would remain.

Steve placed one hand on the stone. It was icy cold to the touch. A tiny piece in his chest crumbled into nothing. Despair wouldn’t stop talking to him.

“You deserved better,” Steve said aloud to drown the hisses, even for a second. His voice was hoarse. “Forgive me.”

He would never make Bucky fess up it was him who forged his signature and volunteered him for a whole week worth of night watches. He’d never get to hear Bucky’s laughter again. It had been so long since he last heard the sound that it already started fading from his memories. Bucky would never teach him that new hustling trick he’d been boasting about before the train.

All the chances he thought he was being given, snatched away from him again.

He knew it looking down into the dark chasm that quickly disappeared in the distance behind him, he knew it altering the altitude and staring into the dark waters bellow, and he knew it that very moment he saw the look in Bucky’s eyes and heard the wet sound of his name on Bucky’s lips.

He sighed again, fingers wrapping around the edge of the smooth stone. “I wish I could show you what is left of our Brooklyn. And I wish you could see the sunset from the top floors of the tower.”

It started raining, suddenly and vigorously. Steve didn’t move. He knew he should, he maybe even wanted to move out of the rain to somewhere warm and dry, but his legs wouldn’t carry him. He had no energy left to get back up. There was no point, was there.

He rested his head against the chilled stone, the feeling seeping through his whole body and settling in his chest. “Remember…” Steve tried to speak but his voice broke and he had to take a few minutes just remembering he could breathe. Even if the rain was beating down on him, he wasn’t drowning. He was still there, alive and breathing and he had to go on, had to keep fighting. “Remember how you stole the water colours for me? From some poor man in a town we’ve just liberated.” The rain was deafening in his ears, like a thunder, like the rumble of the plane engines. “Came to me looking all sheepish, wouldn’t tell me a word,” Steve choked out, half laugh, half sob.

The words were torn from him, laboured and painful. Every memory was like a knife slicing into his chest, every word like a twist of the blade. He couldn’t stop talking, though. If he did, the silence would settle and the despair would be heard loud and clear. Steve learned that it always spoke the loudest when there was silence.

“I hate you,” Steve said and he didn’t mean it. “You left me.” Not like Bucky had a choice. Not the first time, getting shipped off into the war, not the second time, falling off the train, and most certainly not now.

“I hate you,” he repeated, hand closing into a fist and slamming into the unyielding stone with enough vehemence that for a moment, Steve thought it would crack. It didn’t. _IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou._

The words kept tumbling out of his mouth, memories and silly wishes and stupid plans for the future Steve thought they might have after all and that were now completely useless. Things they would do and places they’d see, how they’d relearn each other again and slot back together, like they always did.

Steve flinched when a sudden touch pulled his bloodied hand away from the stone. For a moment he thought it stopped raining but then he realized someone was standing over him with an umbrella.

“Hey,” Tony said, releasing his hand. “I came the moment I heard.”

Anger flared, hot and quick. Steve lashed out. “Why did you? You could have saved yourself the trouble.”

“Uh, okay? I could have, but I came because I wanted to be here.”

“I don’t see the point,” Steve growled, struggling to get up on his feet. The grass was wet and he slid, having to steady himself against the tomb. “I don’t want you here. Did you come to glower?”

“Steve,” Tony started, holding up one placating hand. His tone was gentle and Steve felt like he’d been punched. It was worse than Tony coming to glower. It was worse, because Tony was trying to offer sympathy. Tony, of all people.

Even Natasha and Sam knew better that that, they left him alone, left him to cope in a way he saw fit. Both of them knew they could neither lessen, nor understand Steve’s pain. Leave it up to Tony to come and what? Think he could make it hurt any less? Him, of all people?! Tony who tried and failed to kill Bucky months ago?

“I don’t want to hear your empty phrases, Stark. Get out.”

“No, listen, Steve–”

“No, you listen. There is literary only one thing you can do for me and that is to bugger off.”

“But I–”

“What the hell is your problem, Stark? Leave!”

“Look, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never had that kind of bond with…” Tony trailed off, probably realizing remind him just how much precious Bucky had been to Steve would hardly help. “What I’m saying is that I’m here and I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

Tony smiled, that practised media smile that hurt to see. “Okay, so, who do you want me to get?”

“What?”

“Who do you want to be here with you?”

 _Bucky._ “Not. You,” Steve managed through clenched teeth.

“Are you sure? I mean, I come with several advantages. Like, I won’t strike back if you stop keeping yourself in check and punch me. C’mon, do it. I can see your fist clenching.”

Steve unclenched his fist. “Get lost, Stark.”

“Kinda hard to get lost,” Tony said, tapping the commlink behind his ear. “My pal keeps a track. Listen, all I want–”

“I don’t care about what you want, Stark! Didn’t you hear me? I said leave!” The words came with a firm push. Tony threw his hands to the side to balance, the shove clearly catching him off guard, despite his words.

Tony planted his feet firm to the ground. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“Like hell you aren’t,” Steve said, launching himself at Tony. Only, it’s been days since he’s last eaten or slept and he was so drained, physically and emotionally, that Tony had no problems blocking his blows.

Tony easily sidestepped Steve’s next punch, his umbrella didn’t even shake. “Okay, so maybe I don’t have a heart so I can’t understand your grief.”

“Tony–”

“Now, don’t interrupt me, I can’t understand your pain but I remember one thing, all right? Trust me on this when I say it’s _easier_ when you know you’re not alone.”

“You don’t have to be there for me to know that,” Steve snarled but the heat was lacking. The adrenaline was gone and he just felt tired. Exhausted. Broken.

“True. But I have a feeling that’s telling me you’re not one of those people who regain their footing by shutting themselves away from the rest of the world. You need people around you, Steve. I’m people.”

“You’re people,” Steve echoed dully.

“Yessir.”

For a few moments, they were both silent, then Steve took a step closer toward Tony and his umbrella. Tony didn’t even flinch.

“So, as I was saying, I get that my face is not the most cheery sight for you right now and if you tell me who, I can fetch anyone else but Steve, you’re not spending another minute here alone. I might be a lousy company but… well, it’s something, right?”

At least it wasn’t quiet.

“I have to sit down,” Steve said, voice hollow.

“Sure.”

Steve made an unsteady step to the tomb. Tony crouched down picking something from the ground and placing it near the headstone.

Potted daisy spray. Steve doubted they would survive the climate. They were his mother’s favourite flower and he made sure they were always close to her grave. Steve idly wondered if Tony knew.

“I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

Steve looked up at Tony. He saw the open expression and it made his throat tighten. There was so much hurt and vulnerability that was mirroring his own, that he found he had no words to say.

There were no words to describe the feeling that had made itself at home deep in Steve’s chest, and there was no point in trying to do so, not when Steve knew Tony couldn’t feel what he did. Tony didn’t lose what Steve did. And he came here anyway.

Steve felt tears slide down his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head low, which only caused more tears to follow. He bit down hard on his lip because he could feel how badly it was wobbling and he hated showing this much weakness in front of Tony.

He leaned back, head resting against the cold stone. He concentrated on breathing. Wasn’t it funny how powerful and strong was the beating of his heart, seeing that Steve felt it being shredded to pieces, over and over again? How could his body go on, breathing and pumping blood through his veins, when Steve’s mind was still stuck in that moment, replaying Bucky’s last seconds on a loop.

He couldn’t do anything. Even when the understanding dawned on him lightning quick, there was nothing Steve could do. His old fears and worries awoke, and despair laughed quietly in his hear, the sound harsh and unpleasant, and its fingers, lean and icy cold, pressed against Steve’s face, making breathing difficult.

His emotions were overcoming him and his whole body was trembling.

The rain stopped hitting Steve’s face as Tony moved close, settling down next to Steve, getting his suit dirty and not seeming to care one bit.

The silence stretched between them, then Steve felt a tentative hand touching his shoulder. Tony’s voice was so small Steve barely recognized it. “Tell me if I’m doing anything wrong, okay?”

Tony’s hand was warm, and the rain beat a steady pattern onto the umbrella. Steve could almost hear Bucky’s amused voice asking if the umbrella came with some extra features, like a jetpack or a sheathed sword. He didn’t open his eyes to check it out, he wasn't that curious.

Something seared through Steve and he sucked in a sharp breath at the intensity of the pain. He grasped at the strands left in its wake and he thought, he thought that if there was something of Bucky left, then it wouldn’t be all forgotten. Steve wanted it to be more than a memory, Steve wanted it to be there, a presence with him, quietly snarking in his ear.

He opened his eyes, rubbing at them with the back of his hand. He glanced at the umbrella Tony was holding. It appeared to be a simple, ordinary black one. Steve opened his mouth to ask, like Bucky would ask. The words got stuck in his throat and he couldn’t make a sound.

Tony didn’t say anything, he just kept sitting there next to Steve. It was enough for there not to be a complete _silence_.

Steve raised his hand and wrapped his fingers around Tony’s hand, gripping tight. The touch send chills down his spine because it was something so strange, something that didn’t fit the scenery in the slightest. Everything was soaked and cold and desolate around Steve, from the clingy air to the smooth stone. But Tony was warm. He was human and he was alive.

Steve half twisted towards the other man, gripping the offered hand tighter still, his hold firm enough to hurt. Tony didn’t complain, he only shifted, the umbrella lodged between his shoulder and neck, his other hand coming around Steve, pulling him closer and simply holding on.

Steve clung to him, the only warmth in the icy cold sea, the only thing that could keep the greedy hands of despair at bay.

There were no words of comfort but it didn’t mean there was no comfort being given. Steve’s lips parted, a quiet sob escaping him.

When Tony squeezed his hand back, he realized just how bruising his own grip on him was. But Tony didn’t say a word so Steve didn’t pull away, nor did he lessen his grip.

He held on even as his fingers started to go numb, fearing that he’d drown if he didn’t.

Moments passed and Steve’s eyelids were getting heavier. He hadn’t slept in days. He was about to crash from the sheer exhaustion and Tony seemed to sense it.

“Let’s go back inside,” Tony said quietly. He rose to his feet and Steve followed, subdued in a haze. Everything was murky and dulled but at least it meant that for now, the pointy stabs of despair weren’t so overwhelming.

Tony put his arm around Steve’s waist and Steve leaned in, letting Tony accept some of his weight. He was afraid the chatter would start any second, tarnishing the silence of the night, but Tony remained uncharacteristically quiet.

Comfort could be found in the strangest things.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [More than Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118678) by [Taste_is_Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet)




End file.
